


Living without, Living without, Living without you

by Mekachu04



Series: Nanowrimo 2019 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 'married' fights, Anxiety, Drinking, Gen, Nope'geddeon, Post-Apocalypse, Snuggling, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21759364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mekachu04/pseuds/Mekachu04
Summary: a story about sleeping, in three partsalternatively, a story about breaking free
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Nanowrimo 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572688
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [ Hikaru9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru9) for not only encouraging me to finish this up, but for looking it over and making sure it actually makes a lick of sense.
> 
> title is also a shout out to Queen. i dare you not to keep singing the rest.

The first time they sleep together is the night the world didn’t end in Tadfield, England; their first night together tucked away safely at Crowley's place. 

Well, one of them sleeps.

Aziraphale might have been the one to die that day, but Crowley is _exhausted_ , and the steady movement of the bus out of Tadfield - along with a belly full of wine - has him struggling to remain awake, mostly using Aziraphale's solid form next to him to stay upright. Additionally, Aziraphale is solid, and warm, and he only tightens his fingers around Crowley's hand when the demon’s body slumps against his.

He's actually upset when the bus stops outside of his flat; Crowley really doesn't _want_ to move, but Aziraphale is pulling him to his feet and shuffling them off the confused driver's bus. Aziraphale blesses the man's night, giving Crowley a chance to take the lead, a casual stroll hand in hand with his best friend, through the quiet Mayfield night and walk them to his home.

He's never actually brought the angel to this particular residence before; he'd moved here during the holy water fight, and once they were back on regular speaking terms, it seemed too late for a housewarming party.

He doesn't have much in the way of food, but there _is_ more drinking they could do. Crowley belatedly realises as he enters him home, extremely mindful of a very dangerous puddle still in his entryway; that his home is not really set up for entertaining company. It is honestly how Crowley prefers his space - Aziraphale was always a much better host - but he doesn't even own a couch that would be up to Azirphale’s standards. 

No, the most comfortable furniture he owns, while still being large enough for two, is his bed. It's a testament to just how tired Crowley is that the bed is where he leads them, once he's grabbed a bottle of wine for Aziraphale and scotch for himself. The ruined jacket dissolves away with a half thought miracle, and he's boneless the way he flops onto his bed; just happy to not be standing any longer, before awkwardly trying to keep drinking without having to actually move.

Aziraphale, drinking once again straight from the bottle, has a fond laugh at his expense, but does join him on the bed. He's taken his shoes and his coat off, but otherwise seems content to sit on top the coverlet, back upright against the headboard, moving the pillows over to help prop Crowley up for his own drinking.

One minute Crowley is taking a swig from his bottle; the next the room is dark, and while his head thrums a bit, he's otherwise warm and comfortable.

Sometime in his sleep, Crowley's pulled the comforter up over his head and burrowed down into the blanket, but there's an overwhelming sense of _safe_ in his home that's not been there before. And it seems to be exuding from the very warm presence against his back.

Aziraphale is no longer atop the covers; Crowley doesn't know if they'd both been under them at one point, but by now he has stolen them all for himself. As a sometimes snake, he will insist that the way he’s wrapped his usually rebellious limbs around the poor blankets, _cuddling_ them like his life depends on it, is just his inner constrictor showing, nothing more; desperately trying to ignore both how exposed it leaves him, and the mortification that he enjoys a good snuggle. Yet, instead of waking to a state of vulnerability or judgement, he instead can feel the fabric of Aziraphale's slacks brushing the small of his back where he's nestled at Aziraphale’s side, his shirt having ridden up while he slept.

The smell of fire and smoke still fills his nose, but as he pulls his head out from under the blanket, he doesn't feel grimy or singed; the afterburn of a heavenly miracle lingering around him where Aziraphale cleaned him after he passed out. He did not, however, go as far as to miracle Crowley sober, the bastard. Now, in the light of day, it’s all too bright, and there's too much to face, so he grapples for his glasses, trying to figure where in the mess of his bed he must have lost them.

Once he's moving, he’s aware Azirpahale's gentle touch on his shoulder; if feels almost like the angel didn't realise he was doing it, a gentle drum of fingers against him, "Good Morning, darling."

"Morning angel." Giving up on the glasses for a moment, Crowley rolls back in a way spines don't actually move, his head coming to rest in the angel’s lap so he can look up at his friend. It doesn't look like the angel has moved once during the night, but here he is, safe and sound in Crowley's bed, smiling down at him in the morning sun.

"I think I have an idea," he says, eyes hidden away by Crowley's glasses.


	2. Chapter 2

They toast to the World, _their World_ , and celebrate the rest of their lives. 

Afterwards, giddy, they go to Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley already saw it that morning, had already reverently run his hands along restored shelves and tomes, but that had been using Aziraphale's hands and senses. His own fill with smoke again. They'd done the same when he thought about his Bentley, right up to him sitting back into her lovely seats. He’d threw up a thanks to nobody that he had his glasses on so Aziraphale couldn't see him tear up. He _knew_ the books were fine, but the smell lingered in his nostrils, on his tongue. Aziraphale - who knew in the abstract that his home had burned to the ground, but not witnessed it - had looked around curiously, but other than Adam's parting gifts didn't see anything outside of what was expected. Instead, his angel had cautiously taken his hand - he'd done the same in the Bentley, when Crowley was very much _not_ crying - and Crowley took a steadying breath, expelling the phantom heat and smoke from him. He forced himself to taste the air, to smell the musty old books with no lingering miasma. To feel the slightly cool dampness meant to make customers uncomfortable instead of the heat and sweat. The calming sense of his nerdy angel and not _the fear_ and _the terror_ of the day before.

There are more drinks; they giggle into each other on one of the couches like teenagers - regardless that neither have ever been a teenager. They laugh about pulling the wool over their former bosses, marveling over the fact that it worked, and that they're free. They know it's unlikely to last, and they're both are realistic enough to acknowledge that, but for the first time, there is no yoke. No boss. No one to give orders of missions or tasks. It's terrifying, and they both know that it will sink in soon enough, and want to enjoy the freedom first. They spend the afternoon shouting out outrageous destinations to visit or increasingly frivolous things to miracle.

They touch.

Nothing ostentatious, but Aziraphale is sprawled against Crowley’s back and peering over his shoulder as his demon uses his phone to order food deliveries from anywhere Aziraphale can think of. Crowley juggles a variety of different apps - and then throws in demonic miracle or two when Aziraphale isn’t looking if the angel’s choice doesn't do online delivery - and the evening is filled with a near never-ending supply of all the best eats of London, right to Aziraphale's fingertips. It still won't be enough to get the angel to upgrade to an uncorded phone, but if he did, how would Crowley show off his mad tech skills? (He tried to get Aziraphale on the digital book thing a few years ago, and while the angel was highly complimentative of human ingenuity, he really preferred his paper books, his need to touch and smell and own. It was amusing though, to watch the book lover half war with the hoarder half. Maybe in another 50 years, Crowley would try again, get him started on fair use stories, and show him the collections of out of print public domain files. Maybe introduce him to some of the online groups dedicated to typing up digital files to hard to find books.)

Most of their shared time is still at the book shop, but now there's no hinting that it's time to wrap things up, and Crowley discovers that he _loves_ being in the shop when Aziraphale is open. His customers are a riot, and Aziraphale has pretty much given him free reign when it pertains to ones who come in trying to buy something. Now, Aziraphale does have a few regulars that seem to finally understand the song and dance and come in to read, or chat, or knit, but know better than to ever attempt to buy anything. These humans are off limits to Crowley's pranks. The others? Well, Crowley has taken upon himself to be better at wile-ing guests out of the shop than Aziraphale himself.

He sometimes ‘forgets’ to put his glasses back on around the customers. Humans have gotten so weird these days that the colour and shape of his eyes don't bother them so much anymore. But the fact he. Does. Not. Blink. is so off putting that several would-be customers talked themselves out of buying something without really knowing why. Aziraphale only comments that hypnosis is cheating.

Aziraphale takes his hand when they go out now. They pointedly _don’t_ look at each other the first few times it happens; both embarrassed by the sudden clinginess they are both displaying. But Crowley will squeeze back in reassurance, even as he looks away. 

They hold hands because they want to. Because now they are _allowed_ to. But also because, while the abductions that befell them in the park had been expected, it had all happened so very quickly. The fear and panic that had taken hold of Aziraphale when the angels had hauled Crowley away had been deeply real. While Crowley had left himself open on purpose, he’d still been surprised by the efficiency in which he'd been bound. So they cling to each other, maybe more than they needed. They go together to Crowley's flat to water his plants, or when Crowley needs a nap. He sleeps curled up in his soft sheets, with Aziraphale often reading next to him, even if Crowley’s naps sometimes stretch from a couple of hours into a couple days.

They miracle themselves passage to America to visit Anametha and Newt, who are on vacation with her family; and to peek in on Warlock, whose family moved back immediately following Tel Megiddo. Aziraphale agonizes a little, waiting for someone to call him out on the frivolity of it, and while Crowley assures him that there is nothing to worry about, he's worried himself.

But no one says anything.

-

Crowley starts to relax as winter sets in, starts to move into his mayhem-at-christmas rituals, and tries desperately to get Aziraphale to follow suit. Tries not to get short with the angel who has slowly become an even more anxious mess as the weeks stretch on. 

Aziraphale is yet again fretting a path into the hardwood floors of his shop, worry twisting him all up, and it's only six thousand years of friendship with the angel that kept Crowley calm and collected in the face of Heaven’s Stubbornness personified. Today Aziraphale had recoiled when Crowley had moved to take his hand after their lunch at the British museum cafe. And while Crowley was not offended by it, Aziraphale was. He was upset that he'd flinched away to start with, and he was upset that Crowley wasn't upset at all. He’d been on edge and flighty all afternoon, jumping at shadows, still waiting for another confrontation with Heaven, and each time he realised what he was doing, he grew more and more upset at himself for it.

"You've flown under the radar for decades before, just think of it like that."

Aziraphale had never outright refused Crowley's touch before now. But there were very few reasons for contact before, from anyone. Until then, Crowley had been content to simply hover in Aziraphale's space, and angels in general didn't entertain much propinquity with each other. The result being, while Aziraphale loved humans; he often found them rather overwhelming and loud, and tended to sequester himself away for decades at a time, preferring one on one interactions. Crowley had actually been so immensely proud of the angel when he first went to a human barber. He did not need it of course, but there was something soft and sincere about Aziraphale allowing a human to touch him. He did enjoy being pampered, he just had strong limits on when and how.

Limits that the two of them were having to learn on the fly. Because it was growing increasingly clear Aziraphale _wanted_ contact with Crowley; angelic instinct was a hard thing to re-write however, and if he didn't know Crowley was going to reach out to him, he often reflexively balked. Again, not something Crowley was bothered by, other than how upset it made Aziraphale.

"It's not like Gabriel to let things go." 

Crowley remembers the irritation that had been on the Archangel’s face, up until Crowley had burned it away with his little show. Wishes again he'd spit that fire for real instead of just pure intimidation. Granted, Heaven might not have been so willing to just look away if 'Aziraphale' had erased an Archangel, but at least he’d have something more weighted in trying to reassure Aziraphale that he didn’t need to worry anymore.

"He was still upset about the fall,” Aziraphale continued, and Crowley made point to sprawl himself across the angel’s back, letting himself drape bonelessly. It didn’t cut the tirade off, but Aziraphale's voice dropped, whispering into Crowley's elbow, "He wanted the war to start again because he felt your lot hadn't been properly punished."

"It took more than six thousand years for that one. _So_ in another six thousand years, we’ll start to worry about it."

"Crowley!"

"Angel!" he mocks, matching Aziraphale's indignant tone, and shifting his weight to prod Aziraphale into sitting on the couch lest Crowley topple him over completely. He maneuvers Aziraphale so he is laying flat, even if his feet remained on the floor, and stretched out over the angel, trapping him.

"You’re squishing me," Aziraphale muttered, without heat or struggle.

"Think I need a nap." he laughed, making no move to get up.

"Crowley!" the angel giggled, pushing against him, "Let me up!"

“Let me sleep," he countered, "it’s cold, you’re warm. Nap time."

It helps distract Aziraphale for a little while.

-

They fight shortly after Easter. Neither seems to remember what about, but they both part ways that night rather cross. It’s going to be the first night they've been apart in months, and at first they both seem to be relieved by the space. But Crowley can't sleep, just restlessly paces his flat, and in SoHo, Aziraphale stares blankly at a book, unable to see the words on the page beyond his own racing thoughts. They're both thinking about the other. Crowley can't help wonder if Aziraphale is okay. Aziraphale can’t help wonder if Crowley is safe.

Aziraphale makes it till ten o’clock in the evening, before he closes his book with a huff, and storms out his own front doors to catch a bus. Ten minutes later has him pacing the street in front of Crowley's flat, a reflection to the agitated stride happening floors above him, trying to convince himself to leave it be and go back home.

Crowley attunes into the anxious angel energy gathering outside, and storms out in his pyjamas. Neither says a word, Crowley just grabbing Aziraphale's coat, and marches them back to his penthouse.

Aziraphale spends the night sulking in Crowley's office. Crowley doesn't sleep.

But there’s no more fear.

They get tetchy with each other more during the following week, pendulating between barbs starting to be thrown with intent, and the desperation of treading on thinning ice around each other. Impetuosity, Crowley plays his last hand.

"Spend the night with me."

Aziraphale is derailed mid-thought, and can only look at him confused, "Of course, Dear." After all, they have yet to spend a night apart since Tadfield.

"Sleep with me tonight."

Another time, the reaction would have been delightful; Aziraphale's face burning a bright red as he sputters out a “Crowley!" in _the_ most scandalized voice known to mankind. The sometimes-a-snake demon rolls on the floor with a laugh he couldn't hold back in time, "no no no - sleep. Just sleep. No funny business." 

"Indeed!" he sputtered, " ‘Funny business.’ Good Lord, Crowley!"

He’s still chucking as he peels himself off the floor. "My place... Sleep with me this time."

"You know I don't sleep."

"For me. Please."


	3. Chapter 3

"I think I have an idea." They’ve cloistered themselves away in Crowley's flat once again. Crowley has pulled back the blankets to his bed, maneuvering the angel to sit on the luxurious sheets with a firm hand and steeling himself for a very odd fight.

Modesty was not something angels or demons originally had, and often they simply dressed to match whatever humans they were interacting with. It was only the pair’s long exposure to humans that had given them any sense of humility or propriety over the centuries. And Crowley knew that his request was going to butt up against Aziraphale's self-developed sense of decency. 

He dresses himself in his own usual sleep clothes; though honestly he rarely wore them if he was sleeping in his bed. They were more for wandering his flat or sleeping on the wall. It was an injustice to his sheets to wear clothing to bed. However, this could go sideways fast, and while Crowley wasn't actually _against_ the idea of sharing his bed with Aziraphale with neither of them dressed in anything, that was something to be shelved for a different night.

"I'm gonna teach you to sleep, angel. so... imgonnaneed _youtoundress_ "

"Crowley, this is a terrible idea; I don't sleep. I never have. Can't we just-"

"You never ate anything once upon a time either. And there was a time when you didn't know what the point of humans writing things down was for. You didn't used to care about clothes, and you didn't always collect snuff boxes either." Crowley kneels on the floor, his head resting on Aziraphale's knee, trying to ignore the way the angel went rigid under his cheek. He could _hear_ Aziraphale thinking, trying to find his equilibrium. And Crowley would normally let his friend find his balance before moving on, but this was difficult enough, and Crowley was looking it more like a proverbial band aid - rip it off quickly and get it over with.

"I think... I think once you figure it out, it'll just be another human thing you like. Never as much as books or sushi or wine, but I think you'll like it. And you need the rest, Aziraphale. You need to turn off that head of yours for just a little bit. Just to hit pause for a while so you can have a moment of peace."

Aziraphale's face twists in hurt and self-loathing, but he didn't offer an argument in his defense. 

"Just, let me teach you how. Just try it, please."

"Wily tempter," Aziraphale whispers finally, looking more cross with himself and with no heat to the words. He rests a shaky hand on Crowley's head, thumb toying with the red strands.

"Please?"

Aziraphale steels himself, not too unlike the expression he wore facing off against Satan, and nods, "Okay." _Because it's you asking,_ he didn't say, but Crowley hears him anyway.

Crowley sits back on his haunches, taking Aziraphale's hands in his, and resting his forearms on the angel’s knees. He won't ask if Aziraphale trusts him. He doesn't have to. "Take your clothes off."

There’s a faint blush to Aziraphale's cheeks; Crowley won't let go of his hands, implying the angel will need a miracle for this one. It would be too sensual, Aziraphale undressing the human way. That wasn't what tonight was about.

The angel doesn't have an effort tonight either, looking at Crowley with a bite to his lip to see if he would be judged for it. Honestly, it makes this less awkward that he doesn’t tonight. His clothes fold themselves on the nightstand. "Pyjamas?" he whispers.

"Not this time,” Crowley shakes his head, looking almost regretful. “Once you know how to sleep, then I'll buy you the softest, most extravagant, sleep clothes that you can possibly imagine," he promises, moving to stand up.

He guides the angel into the bed, following after until they are both tucked between sheets and quilt, heads resting on their own plush pillows, facing each other. There’s a soft wildness to Aziraphale's too blue eyes, and Crowley takes the angel’s hands in his own once again, looking intently at their intertwined fingers. "When you are ready, I want you to close your eyes."

A few uneasy moments linger heavy between them, before finally, Aziraphale takes a steadying breath and does so, teeth worrying at his lips since Crowley was holding his hands still.

"The hard part is you have to stop thinking. And that really _is_ hard, I know. Especially for you. So, when you start to think about things, I want you to focus on what you’re feeling right now instead."

Aziraphale's brow furrows, and Crowley can see the questions starting to form, "Keep your eyes closed. Visualize the dark. But also, focus on what my hands feel like."

That gets him a small smile, and Aziraphale tightens his hands encouragingly.

"Remember, the point is to not think about anything but right _now._ Listen to my voice, not just what I'm saying but how it sounds in the air," Crowley does not possess the most rumbling of voices, but tucked in this close Aziraphale can feel it in his bones, a soft humming quality that vaguely reminds him of holding a purring cat.

"Focus on how the sheets feel against your skin." And _oh!_ Crowley has nice sheets. Soft as goose down, and just the right cool touch against his skin in contrast to Crowley's mellow warmth beside him.

"Feel the weight of the quilt." Aziraphale has never dreamt before, but the soft far away tone Crowley's voice has taken on must be what writers meant by dreamy quality.

"The cool air on your face." He feels grounded and adrift all at once, a juxtaposition that felt quite nice; paradoxes were meant to be unsettling, but somehow with Crowley they always felt wondrous.

" _The warmth where we touch_." The words are more breath than anything else, and the warmth of that too is lovely

Crowley can feel how Aziraphale seems to get a little heavier in his hands, the angel no longer consciously supporting his own hands, and they loosen a little where they hold each other. He keeps a slow litany up, and inches by inches, Aziraphale drifts off. The angel burrows closer as he does, giving Crowley an armful of angel, near colourless tight coils of hair along his neck as Aziraphale's head moves to rest against his shoulder instead of the pillow.

Their legs twist around each other and the sheets, and Crowley risks letting go of Aziraphale's hands completely to pull him close.

Once he's sure the angel is truly asleep, he shuffles the quilt around, making sure to keep it tucked around Aziraphale, but giving him the room to stretch his own wings out into the room. His right wing remains tucked close to his back, still mostly under the blankets, but he maneuvers his left one free, and wraps it protectively around Aziraphale, tucking him in closer. Aziraphale hums into his neck, his curls tickling Crowley's jaw, but he's relaxed into Crowley in a way the demon hasn't seen since their celebration at the Ritz.

Crowley will not sleep that night. He will remain awake and vigilant the whole time, as he always does when Aziraphale allows his own guard to drop even a little. But this is a reward worth his sacrifice, to at last see the stress of not just the confrontation with their respective head offices finally and truly melt away, but the long held rigidity that the angel thought he must hold himself too. 

This is the angel that lights up whenever a clever human finds a new way to make a tasty dish, or the telling of a new story - or even an old story with a new twist.

This is the angel that unapologetically loves humanity. The one who Crowley loves and is loved by in return. 

Here, sheltered under Crowley's meticulously groomed feathers, tucked away safely at Crowley’s side, Aziraphale sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _But life still goes on  
>  I can't get used to living without, living without  
> Living without you by my side  
> I don't want to live alone, hey  
> God knows, got to make it on my own  
> So baby, can't you see?  
> I've got to break free_
> 
> I want to break free, Queen  
> written by John Deacon; 1984  
> \- i choose to interpret this song, for this story, as Aziraphale (primarily) and Crowley (to an extent as well) reaching for each other, trying to break free of their pasts. Sometimes the song is taken to mean breaking free from the same person they are singing about being in love with. I've interpreted that it is the act of falling in love that's causing the singer to break from from the social/family constraints put on them up until this point


End file.
